


Totem

by IshkabibbleScribble



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bromance, Friendship, Gen, John is a badass, Sherlock gets hurt, kinda character study - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-31 20:39:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8592682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IshkabibbleScribble/pseuds/IshkabibbleScribble
Summary: Sherlock expected John to be involved in the bid to free him from the terrorist cell. He just didn’t realize it would involve swords. Or sentiment.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> AN1: This is a prequel to my fic ‘Aegis’, which you don’t have to read first, but it might be helpful to do so. :)
> 
> AN2:  We don’t get to see John in his capacity as a soldier as much as I’d like (aside from Pink), as he’s usually playing Sherlock’s foil, doctor, or both. I wanted to explore the scenario I briefly described in Aegis--mainly because the idea would not leave me alone, but also because it’s absurd enough to provide entertainment *and* maybe some character development. A two-fer! Hang on to your bonnets, folks. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!
> 
>  **Spoilers:** Series 1 of Sherlock
> 
>  **Summary:** Sherlock expected John to be involved in the bid to free him from the terrorist cell. He just didn’t realize it would involve swords. Or sentiment.
> 
>  **Setting:** After The Great Game, but before Scandal in Belgravia
> 
>  **Disclaimers:** This is purely to express my enjoyment of the show and the brilliant writing, characterization, and acting we've come to adore. ACD, Moffat and Gatiss own everything except the idea for this fic. I sincerely hope I’ve done the characters justice.

# # # #

**PART I**

“I’m just saying it’s something to go on,” Lestrade said, attempting to sound cajoling. 

“A bloody terrorist cell is holding Sherlock hostage for no other reason than he’s got a blog and an older brother who shares his last name, and they’re threatening to rip his teeth out and hammer them into his skull unless we cough up an absurd amount of ransom and all that’s _something to go on?_ ” John’s voice climbed another octave. “And why the _fuck_ is Mycroft ignoring my calls?” He made to throw his mobile, then thought better of it.

Lestrade’s eyes flickered to John’s fists clenching and unclenching spasmodically at the doctor’s side. He had never seen John this emotional before, and it unnerved him. “John, we have time to find him. We almost had a trace.”

"You think I don't--Of course I know--" John sputtered.“What if that’s what they wanted? What if it’s a plant? It’s not that simple.”  His nostrils flared as he took a deep breath. “Look, you’ve got what you need. It’s been an hour. Everyone get out, please,” he said, furious gaze now fixed on Sherlock’s armchair.

Anderson continued to collect evidence as if John hadn’t spoken, dutifully cutting and tape-lifting the spray of blood droplets from the carpet near the couch.

Lestrade took a slow step forward, concern clear on his face. “Is there something else going on, John?”

John harrumphed and turned away, fighting down the surge of fear that accompanied Lestrade’s words. He couldn’t know, could he? Sally was dithering about in the kitchen, not touching anything, but her gaze darted from the cupboards to the baseboards, and lingered suspiciously on the canisters of flour and sugar.

John’s temper ignited in an instant. “A fucking drugs bust? Now? Is that what you think Sherlock needs?” He roared, pointing at Sally.

She startled and jerked back into the table, sending an erlenmeyer flask to the tile with a crash. “No, John, honestly, I was looking for--”

“I said get out,” John said, biting out each syllable.

No one moved. Sally had frozen in the process of picking up the pieces of the flask. Lestrade just looked stricken. John couldn’t see Anderson, but it was deathly quiet in the flat.

“What part of ‘get the fuck out of my bloody flat’ are you finding difficult to understand?” he bellowed, losing the battle against his ragged temper. “Now do your fucking jobs and find out where they’ve taken him!” 

John became aware of the silence and cleared his throat, a flush appearing high on his cheeks. The visible tension in his body ebbed slightly. “Please update me on any new leads. I’m going to check his site again.”

It was in that moment that Lestrade intuited why Sherlock insisted upon taking John with him to every crime scene, every alley chase. That even in the midst of a whirlwind of activity surrounding a case, Sherlock found time for John to choke down a cold sandwich and a cup of coffee. He doubted the consulting detective understood his own motives, but then, Sherlock wouldn’t recognize a directive coming from his heart, would he?

This sort of staunch allegiance, how freely John displayed his regard for such a contrary man was a rare thing indeed. It occasionally brought out the “good” man that Lestrade believed was bound and gagged inside Sherlock’s subconscious. All the more reason to find the consulting detective; he did not want to face John Watson if Sherlock had come to serious harm.

“Everyone out. Out,” Lestrade barked. Anderson looked at if he was going to protest, but a deep glare from Lestrade had him swallowing his words and shoveling his paraphernalia into its carrying case with a look of pained irritation.

“I want updates as soon as you have them,” John repeated, waggling his mobile under Lestrade’s nose. 

“I will, John.” Lestrade gripped John’s shoulder resolutely. “We will find him.”

The DI gave him such a look of concern and long-suffering that John was tempted to apologize in spite of the DI clearly possessing information about John that was private. One glance at the smashed teacup on the carpet hardened his resolve.

“Thank you,” John said, meaning it, before shutting the door in Lestrade’s face. He waited until the DI’s footsteps had faded down the staircase before turning away from the door. 

He stalked about the wreckage of their living room, free now to vent the rage and worry choking his throat as he imagined Sherlock struggling against his unknown assailants. And clearly there had been more than one man--he had seen Sherlock take on as many as three before being overwhelmed, and that was only in his hand-to-hand. He even paid some eccentric, crusty ex-pat who resembled Rasputin to attack him at random intervals to “keep him on his toes” for fuck’s sake. 

John glowered at the memory of returning home from a hellish day at the surgery to Sherlock swaying in place as he poured tea for a frightful-looking man seated on the couch, the teapot and Sherlock’s arm slathered in an almost comical amount of blood. It was only Sherlock's dreamy yet frenzied insistence that he had "paid the man, John" and should not be rewarded for his hard work by having his brains plastered all over their wallpaper. 

His mobile pinged. He rolled his eyes as he unlocked the screen, bracing himself for Lestrade’s annoying but well-meaning attempt at solidarity.

The number at the top read _Unlisted_. 

_18 Ravenhill Road._  
_London E13 9BN._  
_Play by the rules._  
_Remember the Order._  
_Accurate weapons only._

Blood thundered through his temples, his heart aching and swelling at the lines of text, even as the rest of his awareness narrowed in, sharp enough to see the individual pixels, a thousand different ideas tripping and stumbling through his brain, warring to take top billing. He fought down the urge to _act_ , that instinct that had carried him through his tour and kept him alive when mixed up in the danger that followed perpetually in Sherlock’s wake. Going straight to the address would be stupid. 

_“You see, but you do not observe.”_

Sherlock’s favorite jibe stilled his rampant thoughts. He mentally shook himself, and reviewed the facts:

When he’d arrived back from Tesco’s this morning, the Yard had already been at the flat for thirty minutes, and no one would answer his questions. Lestrade was watching him with that particular brand of pity John was all too used to receiving. _Invalided home from Afghanistan. Doctor. Alone. Poor. PTSD. Friends with Sherlock._ Always reduced to a bulleted list. Even though he and Lestrade were friendly, almost mates, the pitying look piqued his pride.

He’d just missed Mycroft, apparently, because why else would Lestrade look both concerned and guilty if he hadn’t been made aware of information that was none of his goddamn business? John knew he was adept at hiding his depression, but hiding anything from Mycroft Holmes was futile in the end. This latest trough had brought him so low that he’d called in to the surgery twice in one week, barely able to get the words out of his mouth before dragging himself into the shower and running the tap for hours. He’d scheduled an appointment with his therapist after that, but when the time came round, he sat on the Tube until long after the appointment had been missed. Mycroft had known, of course. He always did. Damn his CCTV snooping. He really was as insufferable as Sherlock proclaimed. 

Sherlock’s kidnapping was the icing on the dysfunctional cake that John couldn’t stop eating. With a sigh, he turned about and properly _looked_ at the disrupted furniture. 

_First question: professionals?_

John looked down to the shards of bone china at his feet.

No, not professionals. If that were the case, no one would have known Sherlock was missing for hours, days even. Professionals nabbed their mark away from personal lodgings if possible. Clean extraction. 

_Which counts out Moriarty,_ John thought with palpable relief. He quirked a smile in spite of the situation. Being relieved that Sherlock’s kidnappers were just a “garden variety terrorist cell” was mad. Every aspect of his life had gone utterly sideways since he fell in with the consulting detective. John didn’t waste time wondering how the abductors had gotten his number. They wanted him to hunt down Sherlock without the Yard’s help--to show up alone for a spectacular ambush sure to get him maimed or killed. John absolutely intended to go to the address, however...

_Second question: armed with what?_

He looked at the text again. _Accurate weapons only._

He instinctively felt that such a specific directive discounted his firearm. John closed his eyes and mimicked Sherlock’s mind palace process (or what he thought occurred when the man abruptly tuned out). He marshaled the past few days’ events, the kidnapping, the text, holding them all together in his mind, looking for connections.

 

…Nothing.

Scowling, he stomped to the shelves and yanked the nearest dictionary down.

 **accurate**  (ˈækjərɪt)  
**— adj**  
1\. Faithfully representing or describing the truth.  
2\. Showing a negligible or permissible deviation from a standard: an accurate ruler  
3\. Without error; precise; meticulous

A faithfully represented weapon? A weapon without error? A precise weapon? 

He sighed harshly and squeezed the bridge of his nose, running through every swear he knew in English and Pashto before checking the text once more.

_The Order. What Order?_

He turned slowly on the spot, eyes roaming across the oddities dotting the walls. He stopped on the skull painting with the blue background in the corner above the lamp, as he often did when he was irritated and wanted to look at something other than Sherlock. The irony of that thought was felt all too keenly. Of all Sherlock’s “art” in their flat, this was one of the few pieces that resembled actual art, and not “rubbish Sherlock found whilst diving in the bins.” The skull was painted on different layers of perspex, and it clashed with everything else in the room (also an absurd statement, considering). John often mulled over the process needed to create the image. Probably hours of trial and error, jugs of paint wasted—

He snapped out of his thoughts and allowed himself a small smile. _Oh my God. That’s it. Has to be. The paintings._

The paintings from their previous case with the Painted Killer. Ten all told. Each painting had been printed on canvas, embellished with a lavish number, and stapled across the gaping chest wound of each victim. With seemingly no connection aside from the style of death, and no evidence left at the scenes, Sherlock had tacked the canvases onto the walls and studied them for 48 hours (12 of those spent sawing viciously at his Stradivarius), before he catapulted out the door with John stumbling along behind him still half-asleep. He and Sherlock had arrived at Hyde Park before the killer claimed his eleventh victim. It had been a near thing. John still hadn’t gotten the entire explanation from Sherlock.

“If the paintings are the Order, then which one is being referenced?” He wondered aloud.

He straightened the cushions and sat down on the couch with more calm than he felt, flipped the laptop open, logged onto his desktop, and pulled up the document with his notes.

 

_1\. Battle of the Ten Nudes. Antonio Pollaiuolo. 1465_  
_2\. The Garden of Earthly Delights. Bosch. 1510._  
_3\. Hunters in the Snow. Peter Bruegel the Elder. 1565_  
_4\. Judith and Maidservant with the Head of Holofernes. Artemisia Gentileschi. 1625_  
_5\. Death of Major Pierson. Copley. 1783_  
_6\. Oath of the Horatii. Jacques-Louis David. 1784_  
_7\. George III Reviewing The Tenth Dragoons. Sir William Beechey. 1798._  
_8\. Saturn Devouring His Children. Francisco Goya. 1819_  
_9\. The Starry Night. Vincent Van Gogh. 1889_  
_10\. Guernica. Pablo Picasso. 1937_  
_11\. ?_

_Notes:: The paintings vary widely in subject matter and span several artistic periods. All contain people. 6 of the 10 depict weapons, mostly swords._

“Mostly swords,” he read aloud, knowing instinctively that this was the clue. It was too much of a coincidence. And didn’t Sherlock often say that true coincidences were rare? John fished his mobile from his pocket and flipped through the recent photos. A quick review of the canvases confirmed his hunch—other weapons were depicted, but two of the paintings had a sword as a focal point.

Why did the text stress ‘accurate’ if they didn’t mean a sword? A rifle or bayonet wouldn’t provide the thrill these men were seeking, and John had the impression that his actions were very much meant to entertain the terrorists. _And who wouldn’t want to see a twit’s attempt to rescue his friend armed with an obsolete weapon?_ Even John could see the humor.

He looked up from his mobile screen and stared at the fireplace. These men couldn’t be reasoned with--they placed no value in Sherlock other than using him as a costly ransom. If money was even the endgame. 

It was supposed to be a death sentence. 

But John Watson had not survived two tours of a hellish landscape to be outwitted by a pack of thugs. 

The front was seldom far away, though the intensity of his flashbacks had lessened in Sherlock’s company. The triggers were many and varied—the artificial heat the radiator belched in his bedroom brought the front thundering to the fore. The miasma of dust and sweat carried by the oppressive Afghani heat clogged his nose and dried his throat into perpetual hoarseness as he shouted for supplies above the staccato of the assault rifles. The sun was merciless, but it’s absence meant dust storms and a bone-deep chill at night. He felt the press of guilty irritation that had always underpinned his emergency efforts, b/c it was already roasting in the confines of the med tent, and their blood was too hot on his skin, soaking the sleeves of his shirt as he pressed a bleedstop bandage to their wounds.

John slowly closed the laptop, considering his options, surprised a bit at his own calm.

Sherlock did not know everything about John’s tours. In fact, he had rarely asked. There were things John had witnessed that were not recorded, things he had done that were too ugly and deep to ever pass his lips. His bad shoulder twinged in sympathy. 

True, he did not have anyone to turn to when he was invalided back to London. That had not been a lie. John, however, was not without contacts. Many men had died during his battlefield ministrations, but many more had lived. Some even had the chance to thank him in person when his unit cycled back to base. 

This past Armed Forces Day, after the official ceremony, after the crowds had thinned, he and other invalided veterans gathered in Trafalgar, poppies riding stark on their lapels, and made the pilgrimage around the Cenotaph. Other observers jostled around them. The only people speaking were those that had not seen war.

John had nodded at the few men he knew, acknowledged their arbitrary, shared existence, before descending to Charing Cross, only to come back to the street when he discovered the Tube packed with people who had attended for the spectacle, because it was “marked on the calendar.” He could not fault them for it. What did they know?

After one last glance at the rows of poppy wreaths grouped around the monument, he began the walk back to Baker Street, stopping to wolf down a sandwich from Speedy’s before heading upstairs to the flat. He’d hung up his coat and scarf and turned to the living room, his eyes falling upon their cluttered coffee table to the single, live poppy laid on his closed laptop. 

He couldn’t say how long he stood in the doorway, riveted by the burst of color that danced like a flame in the mixed shadows. Sherlock said nothing the next morning, and neither did John. The flower was currently pressed between two pages of case notes in the drawer of his bedside table, and he could feel its presence radiating through the ceiling now, a touchstone from Sherlock that was all the more meaningful in its simplicity.

John held the reverie in his mind and fingered his mobile, eyes flinty and far away, before dialing.


	2. Part II

**# # # #**

**Part II**

 

Sherlock was bored. 

After Moriarty’s abrupt exit, the thrill of the close shave at the pool had evaporated quickly, leaving behind a nebulous dread that centered around John wearing that stupid green parka and the stench of chlorine from the recently-shocked pool. He was _entirely_ unwilling to examine the ramifications of what took place there, and had stuffed it into one of the mildewy cabinets in the basement of his Mind Palace. He had suffered dreadful ennui until the Painted Killer case dropped in his lap, courtesy of a beleaguered Lestrade. 

To be perfectly honest, this abduction was a welcome surprise, one he had enjoyed despite the monstrous lump on the back of his head and the cuts down his arms—tokens of the struggle at Baker Street. And they had broken one of his teacups! After a hurried argument over the length of his legs, his assailants settled for mashing him between them in the backseat of a sedan instead of stuffing him in the boot. The barrels of their holstered torches dug into his sides hard enough to bruise. A garish bandana was yanked over his eyes, pinching his curls, and his head pushed between his legs for the entirety of the ride. Their desultory conversation was inane and painful.

The intrigue heightened briefly once the car stopped; by Sherlock’s internal map, they had taken him to either Battersea or Brixton. He was dragged from the car and pushed around the back of a building. He caught a flash of ground and weed-covered cobblestone. _Loamy, probably acidic. Sandy. More likely Brixton._ The air smelled of pastry and fertilizer. _Possible gentrification or new development. Residential._ One of the men yanked the bandana off. He struggled to triangulate his position, even while being shoved through a squeaky door with flaking paint on the mullions. 

They manhandled him through a quaint galley kitchen, into the small entry, and around the corner into the dining room. He noted one of the terrorists had been waiting for their arrival on the window seat in the nearest wall. Tired-looking crown moulding framed the ceiling and the tarnished chandelier. A chair stood apart from the table, several coils of nylon rope on the thatched seat. A strong whiff of tea and spices enveloped Sherlock. _Cardamom. Ginger. Clove. Anise. Gunpowder. Strong vegetal notes underscored with…jasmine. Possibly the Covent Gard—_ A hand squeezed his windpipe suddenly with such a burst of power that his deductions— _Neoprene. Synthetic leather palm_ —wavered in and out of focus on the wooden floor, threatening to disappear along with his consciousness.

He was dimly cognizant as they trussed him up to a chair, focused instead on drawing breath past his smarting throat. He didn’t miss the dapple of black spots on the edge of his vision—the promise of a migraine, and one of the few things that rendered his most potent weapon out of action. One thug with uneven stubble looped cord around his wrists and shoulders while the other planted a heavy boot against his chest and pressed him back against the chair. The cord was hauled tight and Sherlock thrashed at the blaze of pain, incensed, and succeeded in head butting the one behind while delivering a groin kick to the man in front of him. Their swearing reverberated in the small space, and Sherlock was on the cusp of considering an escape attempt when the gloved hands returned, delivering a double-fisted blow to his left temple. Pain exploded in his head, tinnitus blooming in its wake. He gasped at the sharpness of it, aware that his mouth was hanging open like a hapless drunk. His vision blurred with smears of black and flashes of gold.

_How could this man steal upon him in utter silence?_

For the first time since his abduction, Sherlock was uncertain. The gloved man was an unknown, dangerous variable.  
_A topic to mull over later_ , he thought as his original attackers descended upon him, and the first of several agonizing punches landed on the right side of his face. Sherlock held his composure long enough for the men to lose interest. It was only when they wandered away into the kitchen that he allowed himself the tremulous moan trapped in his chest. _John will not be happy._ Grateful now for the support of the ropes, he sagged forward and hung his head, closing his eyes against the growing photophobia, resigned to collecting auditory information.

Within fifteen minutes, the consulting detective had learned all he could stomach about his abductors. All six of them had withdrawn to the kitchen to discuss topics so prosaic that Sherlock nearly wept with righteous self-pity if the act wouldn’t have exacerbated his pulsing headache. 

His “ransom” call several hours later was laughably straightforward, and did nothing to assuage his boredom. The designated talker had argued with Lestrade, staying on the line long enough for a full trace, or at least one close by. Sherlock shook his head in disgust, insulted once again by the pack of dumb beasts that seemed to compose London’s criminal element. When the talker was summoned upstairs by the gloved man, Sherlock knew what to expect. The other men did too, apparently, because all pretense of conversation stopped until a weighty thump rang out overhead. The silence stretched for a few heavy seconds before they resumed their chatter.

Sherlock sighed harshly in frustration and twisted against his bindings in a burst of temper before retreating to the old world library in his mind palace. Once comfortably ensconced in the Eames chair— _oiled walnut veneer, black leather_ —he reviewed the facts of (his) case. It was getting on into the evening, and surely Lestrade had reviewed the CCTV footage hours ago and dispatched a squad? What in bloody hell was delaying them? And what of his limpet brother? Mycroft’s burdensome obsession with Sherlock’s “wellbeing” should have yielded a rescue attempt. Yes, he had initially welcomed the excitement, but it was dragging on now, and constantly assessing his personal threat level had grown tedious. He couldn’t escape without the risk rising above his standard 73%, and, even more to the point, he couldn’t risk incapacitation with Moriarty still at large.

Suddenly the door to the flat exploded inward with a thunderous crack, the doorjamb splintering where the deadbolt ripped through the wood, slinging shrapnel around the small entryway. Sherlock jerked back to his surroundings and watched as the man closest to the door toppled backwards with a howl, scrabbling at his face with gloved hands. Time stretched. He straightened as much as his bonds would allow and peered out to the darkened stoop beyond. _They couldn’t even be bothered to replace the bloody bulb. Typical._

Incredibly, what materialized from the gloom was not a SCO19 officer wielding an MP5, but rather John Watson, clad in black trousers and jumper, wielding two swords. _Two actual swords. Not replicas._ Sherlock’s hard drive stuttered to a halt. All he could do was stare stupidly as the breath froze in his chest. 

John Watson had not been the last person he expected to come gallivanting to his rescue, but the ex-soldier bursting through the front door, swords in hand, was beyond even his imagination. The scenario would have been darkly humorous if not for the flint in John’s eyes. This was no thousand yard stare. This was the countenance of a predator. Sherlock shivered as a thrill of anticipation crawled up his spine. The man who had been dozing off on the recessed window seat behind him had jerked into wakefulness and was being quite still. _Like a rabbit_ Sherlock thought.

The terrorists were slow to recover, and John fell upon them as a wolf upon lambs. His thrusts were almost elegant in their savagery, sliding between the ribs of both the men still in the entryway, point angled slightly upward, driving for the lung. He took a quick step back, snapping the blades backwards and circling them around into an offensive position as the two men collapsed to the floor. It struck Sherlock that John’s medical background could be...well, quite perilous for his enemies. In two quick strides John was in front of Sherlock. He kneeled, hands moving for the knot of cords around Sherlock’s ankles, and glanced into the other man’s eyes. Sherlock held John’s queer, flat gaze, noted the manic focus evident there. Captain Watson, not John, had risen to the fore. Here at last was a chance to see the man John truly was, the man he had been for years before he and Sherlock ever crossed paths.

Sherlock registered the rustle of fabric, the sliding of boots on hardwood, and opened his mouth to warn John of the man lurking behind him. John’s brow furrowed deeper, his eyes still on the knot, but his hands were moving again. A sword flashed in the weak light, and the bonds slackened around Sherlock’s ankles. He twisted violently to the side against his bonds just as John’s elbow jabbed towards his shoulder, pushing him out of the way, the other sword arcing gracefully, slashing the man just over Sherlock’s shoulder from groin to collarbone. The coppery tang of blood overwhelmed Sherlock’s senses and he gagged, fighting back vomit. John set the edge of the blade against the nylon rope and the chair back and sawed powerfully. The cord gave way with a whine, and Sherlock winced as the blade grazed the shoulder of his coat on the downstroke. He followed the momentum of his body and rolled onto the floor and under the adjacent table, where he began to work furiously on the bindings around his wrists.

The first of the men in the kitchen crowded into the entryway, fumbling with his gun, and John catapulted into them in utter silence, with not even a snarl or curl of his lip, just a tangled flurry of kicks, jabs, and thrusts. _Like shooting fish in a barrel._

Sherlock dropped his gaze to watch John’s footwork. Captain Watson moved with efficiency, each step confident, using the narrow area as a bottleneck, funneling the men towards him. There was no considerate pause, no quirk of a self-deprecating smile on his normally affable face. His technique was sloppy, fitting for a lack of formal training, but his poise was absolute.

The upstairs floorboards creaked. Sherlock staggered to his feet, jerking his hands furiously against the nylon. _John didn’t know about the cold man upstairs._ He stumbled into the entry, forcing air through his throat, but could only manage a hoarse “John.”

John’s head snapped towards Sherlock for a second in recognition, then stalked into the kitchen to deal with the last man still engaged in a futile fight for his life. 

It ended quickly.

John walked back to Sherlock, his expression at once thunderous and questioning, the twin swords streaked with blood. Sherlock motioned upstairs with a freed hand, feeling like he was in a dream. John ascended the stairs and disappeared into the shadows. The last man John had dispatched stumbled out from the kitchen to sag against the paneling of the entry, a comical look of shock on his features. Sherlock watched dispassionately as he swiped clumsily at his intestines as they slithered out between his fingers. The sound of John’s footsteps against the floorboards was the only noise other than the low breathy gasps from the dying man.

John came down in a few minutes, and it was as Sherlock had suspected earlier: the cold man who smelled of spices had vanished the instant John arrived. The doctor glanced at his swords, then to the nearest body, and crouched beside it to wipe his blades clean. The ease of practice in his deft movements filled Sherlock with a thrilling chill. He took a step towards John, but swiftly closed the gap and arrested his hand when John made to sheath his swords. Sherlock hoped the ex-soldier remembered himself enough to resist stabbing him.

“John. You’re in a shabby flat in Brixton--I think” he added belatedly, resisting the urge to look around and confirm the hunch.  “You just killed 6 terrorists to save me. I am safe.” 

He worried that John was in the grip of a very real flashback. After one long minute, the fog cleared from John’s eyes, and they are once more tawny and warm. Already Sherlock can see the pain behind them, that bloody empathy that was both John’s weakness and his strength. He relaxed his grip on the doctor’s wrist minutely, but didn’t release him as John turned around to survey the carnage. 

“Oh,” he said quietly, a wealth of expression in that one syllable. 

He dropped one of the swords and stooped to take the pulse of the closest man, but Sherlock pulled him away. “There’s nothing you can do, John.” He manhandled his friend around to face him. “They were going to kill me.” It wasn’t strictly true. He was likely in no real danger, except perhaps from the man who had stayed in the shadows of the upper floor, communicating with the others in hand signals while slinking catlike around the fuzzy spots of light cast onto the balustrade from the cheap electric chandelier below. Sherlock had the unshakeable impression the ringleader had a certain benefactor he knew all too well. 

_How had John just shown up out of the blue? And where did he procure swords?_ **_Sharpened swords?_** _That he knew how to use?_

Sherlock toed the nearest body, eyeing the other forms for signs of life, knowing he would find none. John certainly knew how to neutralize a threat. 

Here he was, indebted again to John’s quick thinking, to his (clearly skewed) idea of friendship. He huffed in displeasure at the thought. John’s agreeable demeanor hid a snarling lion, and while Sherlock appreciated having that particular ace in his pocket, John’s occasional heroism, he feared, was beginning to affect his collected exterior, affect his expectations. He might...sort of...rely on John’s company.

John was starting to shake in Sherlock’s grip. Tears welled in the corners of his eyes, and he hunched into himself in the manner Sherlock had seen too many times of late, a sword still clenched in his fist. The creases on his forehead were more pronounced, his frown deeper—a subtle shift that stretched the laugh lines too far. John was holding himself together with effort. He looked fragile in the tidal rush absence of adrenaline. Sherlock took a firm grip on John’s shoulder and moved his other hand up to cup John’s neck, grounding him in the present. He said nothing, but mentally reviewed John’s current “case.”  
**\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------**

He had deduced John’s psychosomatic limp within 10 seconds of meeting the man. He had deduced John’s occasional PTSD after their first night together at Baker Street. Sherlock’s intuition relied enormously on being the smartest person in the room, so when he noticed John first took a week off work (ad hoc), he chalked it up to lack of sleep. John was forever making tea in the wee hours, stumping up and down the staircases, staring into the fireplace for far longer than was necessary to discern fuel levels. Nightmares and the occasional shout preceded these bouts of restless wakefulness. They’d had 3 murder cases all round London several weeks prior, and even Sherlock had felt a touch ragged by the end. Nothing a brief catnap couldn’t solve, but John required an annoying amount of sleep. Even more so if he wanted to be “functioning” at the surgery. John taking time off his banal job to allow his ordinary transport time to recover made perfect sense to Sherlock.

John took a two week ‘holiday’ only a few months later, and spent the first week shut up in his room. He emerged twice daily to make the slow, arduous trek to the washroom, but avoided the rest of the flat, including Sherlock. He even refused tea unless it was placed outside his door. Sherlock entertained the suspicion that John was unwell, but short of breaking into the man’s room, he had no data to confirm this theory.

Midway through John’s second week as an irritating shut-in, Sherlock accepted a case that even a simpleton like Lestrade should have been able to figure out, hoping it would entice John from his quarters.

“John, are you decent? We’ve got a case,” Sherlock hollered after jiggling the doorknob and finding it locked.

“No thanks.”

Sherlock could barely make out the mumbled words. “You haven’t been on a case in weeks. It’s…unnatural,” he replied, quirking an eyebrow at his vocabulary choice but finding it appropriate nonetheless. 

“Bugger off.”

Sherlock eyeballed the door with mounting disdain. Even with the 2 nicotine patches currently in his system, his deductive powers could only produce _‘lingering exhaustion’_ from John’s response. “John, I—“ _What? What could he say to convince the man to come out?_ “I’ve got 2 Panadol and a cuppa.”

He hadn’t. 

Sherlock detected the sound of shuffling feet moving ponderously from the far side of the room. 

“How did you know—“John said, pulling the door open. He stared at his friend’s empty hands for just a moment, comprehending the lie, before stepping back out of sight to shut the door.

“Nope,” Sherlock said, jamming his dress shoe into the space, wincing as the door squeezed his foot briefly.

In those brief seconds, Sherlock had deduced quite a bit more about John—enough to stir the dead coals of his latent empathy into a glowing burn. He recognized all the markers, should have deduced John’s malady before this point.

His posture was all wrong—hunched shoulders, one hand bracing his lower back, each step ginger yet weighted, making his gait slow and awkward. His normally tidy hair had grown out to his ears and in disarray. Still in the same cotton sleep pants and RAMC marathon shirt he’d been wearing 4 days ago. It was John’s hooded, dull eyes that confirmed Sherlock’s conclusion. _Depression._

Sherlock’s own “cocktail of maladies” went largely untreated except when he chose to self-medicate, and his intellect was better for it. (Mycroft disagreed). He did not think this was so with his John.

John was steadfastly bouncing the door off his instep now, clearly angry, but too tired to put up more of a fight.

“How long, John?” He was surprised how gentle he could sound. “How long has this gone on?”

“There’s nothing on. I’m just sick. Cold or something.”

“…Or something?” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’ve already deduced—“

“Have you now?” John said with sharpness, anger flashing across his eyes as he flung the door open. “Just…leave me alone, Sherlock. Please. Just go away.”

This was always the cue for Sherlock. He lived to be rebuffed from uncomfortable scenarios. But, well…this was John, and it wasn’t like the psychosomatic limp or the nightmares. Depression had its own twisted agenda that left many an intelligent person a crippled husk…or dead. He knew enough about that personally.

“Don’t you have access to Prozac? Effexor? What’s the point of working there if you can’t nick the drugs?”

“They’re under lock and key, Sherlock. It’s not like a candy shop.” John was now lying facedown on his wrinkled coverlet.

“Not for you, maybe.”

“It’s not depression,” John mumbled.

Sherlock paused in his inspection of John’s nightstand. “Yes, it is. I spend more time being a doctor than you do.”

“How. How could you know that—“

“I suppose you haven’t told anyone. Sarah would demand treatment, and though doctor you be,” he drawled, flopping dramatically next to John’s head, “you hardly ever take a doctor’s advice.”

John titled his head to the side and regarded his friend. “What would you have me do?”

“Does your therapist know?”

“Yes. No.” A harsh sigh. “Yes, she knew about it when I was enrolled in the program. No, she doesn’t know about this…current thing.”

“You’re avoiding pills, which makes a quick fix somewhat difficult to achieve.”

John just stared.

Sherlock threw his legs over the rickety bed frame and lay on his back fully, the old springs warbling at the jarring movement. He glanced at his friend, who seemed to be stuck between anxiety and exhaustion.

“I require your expertise in the Work—you must fix this.” Sherlock waved vaguely at the ceiling.

“Just that easy?” John murmured, turning his face back down to the bed.

“I don’t know how it works with boring people. I drove my depression away with a bacchanalian weekend of drugs and sex. I don’t think that would be efficacious for you because—“ He stopped as the sound of John’s laughter burbled up through the blanket. “Why is it funny?”

John continued to laugh weakly, the little jerks of his shoulders vibrating through the mattress. “I—I honestly don’t know if I believe you. Don’t think I want to, but—“ here John huffed as he turned onto his side to face the other man, “But I can’t imagine a garden variety treatment for you, so…”

“Indeed,” Sherlock agreed.

“I want this to go away, and often it does on its own…but this time is different. It’s starker, meaner.” He squeezed his eyes shut suddenly, as if in response to some internal pain. The rest of his face remained stoic. “I can’t care about anything. I can’t trust myself.”

“How does caring about things help?”

John rolled his eyes. “Caring about things ensures I don’t go lay down in the street in an effort to feel something,” he replied with considerable snark. 

“You’d have to go out to Marylebone Road to find a driver going fast enough with sufficient carelessness to strike you.”

“Thank you, Sherlock, for that bracing comfort.”

“You’ve got to talk to your therapist,” Sherlock said, ignoring John. “Make the appointment, or I shall make it for you.” He expected John to protest.

“What good would that do? She didn’t help me before we met. I’m still just a broken soldier to her.”

Sherlock frowned. “Are you implying I can help? How?”

John looked embarrassed now. “I don’t know.” 

**\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------**

“Sherlock?” John in the present mumbled.

“Mmm?” He replied, surfacing from the memory.

“Why are you touching me?”

“I hope this won’t become a habit, John,” he said quietly, ignoring the question. He dropped the hand cupping John’s neck and gently squeezed John’s hand holding the sword. “I can’t say I’d have used the same method,” he said, eyeballing the length of the blade before meeting John’s eyes, “But I can’t deny you’ve got a certain je ne sais quoi.” He gesticulated with his free hand. “A definite exotic flavor?”

John’s facade cracked, giving way to a faint, humorless smile. “You are a colossal berk, Sherlock. God’s honest.” He dropped the word to the floor with a clatter and scrubbed tiredly at his face with a sleeve-covered fist. “Bloody hell. Made a mess in here, didn’t I?”

“Not without reason, I should think,” Sherlock replied.

John’s chest hitched just once as he stifled a sigh before straightening and focusing on Sherlock.  “Are you alright?” John asked, his guilty conscience forgotten for the moment as he stepped closer and peered briefly into the other man’s eyes. 

Sherlock felt John’s weighty gaze scan across his body, looking for tells of injury. He bore the once-over patiently. “Cheekiness is always rewarded in a timely manner,” he quipped. He was suddenly very aware of his disheveled state. The bruises on his face and throat ache with vicious, warbling force, the cuts on his arms and collarbone burning in harmony. His wrists tingled, still mostly numb. He squinted an eye in response, unwilling to burden John’s already-encumbered sense of concern.

John’s eyes flickered up to his face again. “Especially when it’s your brand of cheekiness.” His fingertips skimmed over the striations around Sherlock’s throat, brushed briefly on the contusions on his jawline before taking his chin and rotating it carefully from side to side. Sherlock silently marveled at the juxtaposition of  a few hours ago. The predatory man’s hands had been cold, even through the gloves. John pulled Sherlock’s collar away to inspect the cut, then took one of Sherlock’s wrists and scrutinized the red welts there. His hands were callused and rough, but gentle--always gentle--even when Sherlock pushed him to the absolute limit. Which, the consulting detective knew, was often. Sherlock slouched fractionally towards his friend in silent acquiescence to his body’s demand for physical proximity.  John’s presence exuded a particular comfort that he found himself missing on the days when a case took them in separate directions.

“Thank you,” Sherlock murmured as a swell of affection engulfed him.

He was not a demonstrative man. An exchange of sentiment was not a guarantee of equal receipt, and the consulting detective had abandoned all pretense on the matter years ago. Of the handful of times he’d been touched by genuine emotion, he weathered the untoward sentiment stoically. Expressive reactions, at their core, gave away fundamentals of the self without promise of equal gain; an unbalanced equation if anything, and there were few things Sherlock hated more than asymmetry. John, the ever-present exception to his litany of tenets and behavioral strictures was, in this world, the only person Sherlock had ever trusted implicitly.

Several different emotions warred across John’s features, but eventually exasperated fondness won out, as it often did. “You’re welcome. Wouldn’t be a proper adventure without your being a twat and getting popped in the face for it.”

Sherlock cocked his head as the first wail of a siren could faintly be detected over the fridge running in the cramped galley kitchen. “I’ll do the talking,” he told John, eyes sliding over the scene once again, gathering details, mind already weaving a passable motive. 

“What else could fit but the truth?” John said. He peered around Sherlock to take stock of his handiwork, blandness settling over his features. “I’ll be committed.”

“Honestly, John, it’s like you don’t have any faith in my ability to prevaricate. Or Mycroft's ability to make these sort of things just disappear."

John snorted mirthlessly. “Even you can’t weasel me out of this one.”

Sherlock squared his shoulders and stepped right into John’s space, towering over the shorter man. “Is that a challenge?”

John dismissed him tiredly. “Whatever.”

"Why swords, John? I'm not complaining about the variety, but it's an odd choice considering you own a firearm. And where is Lestrade?"

The other man stared at his scuffed boots, left hand fisting unconsciously in the cuff of the overlarge sweater.

“How did you get this address?” Sherlock asked after a moment, realizing he would get no more from John on that topic at present.

John dug out his mobile and passed it over wordlessly. Sherlock stabbed the messaging app with his thumb, wrestling with the illogical but very pressing desire to shake John until he regained his former humor. He would deal with John’s typical ‘oh-no-I’ve-killed-someone-again’ malaise after he investigated the mysterious text. He was on his fifteenth reread of the text when the device vibrated in his hand, and a new word bubble popped up at the bottom, confirming his initial suspicions.

_Oh goody, the pet has claws._  
_That was fun wasn’t it?_  
_Next time love. -Jim_

“Who’s that?” John asked, suddenly more alert.

“It’s Lestrade, “ Sherlock lied, darting a glance at John. “He is sincerely hoping that you haven’t gone haring off to find me, because he is en route to this location.”

John slumped back into his former state of dullness. “Oh. Too little too late, eh?”

Sherlock cleared his throat loudly, and scanned over the conversation once more, firmly committing it to memory before deleting the entire message thread. It was understandable that he was upset over the deaths of--actually no, it wasn’t. It bloody wasn’t. _These men chose what side of the fence they wanted to be on when they kidnapped him. How could they have known that John and a serious case of PTSD and depression was on the other side? Moriarty had known. Had wanted to test it. John had unknowingly provided a stellar performance. Moriarty's men were lucky John had granted them a quick death. If Mycroft had gotten his bureaucratic hands on them, well--_

“Where did you procure the swords?” Sherlock asked again, striving for nonchalance but failing to keep the interest out of his voice.

“I know people too,” John replied with a hint of censure.

“Yes, we all _know_ people. Tailor, dry cleaner and so forth. Even if Lestrade were fully competent, he couldn’t find me two honed Pattern 1796 light cavalry sabres, _John_ , not with the help of every poor sod at the Yard.”

“This from the man who owns a whaling harpoon.”

Sherlock pointed a finger in John’s face. “Getting me off topic won’t work.”

“We weren’t _on_ a topic. You were spewing deductions at me--all of which are spectacularly wrong, by the way.”

Sherlock halted mid-thought and scowled. “I am not _wrong_.”

“Give it up, Sherlock.” John gave him an undereyed glare. “You’ve gone through all my earthly possessions at this point, and deduced me down to nothing; I’m allowed a bit of intrigue.”

Sherlock’s contrived hangdog expression indicated that he did not agree.

“I don’t care how you feel about it,” John said.

The younger man’s face hardened. “It won’t be hard to figure out. You’ve forgotten who the clever one--”

“No, actually, I haven’t,” John interrupted smoothly. “But if you care about me even in the slightest, you will leave it alone.”

“You clearly feel something for these men, which is absurd.” Sherlock snapped.

It was the wrong thing to say. John’s face darkened. “Of course I feel something for them. They may have deserved death, but I didn’t relish giving it to them.” Sherlock started to speak, but John cut him off with a jerk of his hand. “They were people, Sherlock. Caring about people, even the criminals, is what separates us in the end.”

“Separates you and I?”

John shrugged. “Maybe.”

The consulting detective was preparing his first devastating salvo of deductions when he caught a flicker of amusement in John’s eyes. “You’re baiting me,” he said, sounding scandalized.

“I am _not_. You’re being a prat because you can’t have what you want. The practice will be good for you.” 

Sherlock opened his mouth, then shut it. He looked furious and injured all at once. “Did you learn swordplay when you were captured?”

John held his friend’s gaze steadily and remained silent.

“But this is one of the only interesting things about you!” Sherlock whined.

John laughed and shook his head ruefully. “Thanks for that. You’re a regular peach after someone’s done something nice for you.”

“You’re using sentiment against me.” Sherlock accused. “That’s--it’s--” He whirled around to face the wainscoting. “That isn’t exactly fair.” 

“Fair? You’re really dragging fairness into this?” John said, disbelieving. “A fair’s a place where hogs win ribbons, Dad used to say.”

“Porcine colloquialisms aren’t a good use of your humor,“ Sherlock grumbled. “And you hated your father.” 

“Ah, no. Indifference would be more accurate,” John said. “And I am not using sentiment against you. Unless honoring a request from your flatmate is so enormous.”

“It is,” Sherlock groused.

“Well--” John fumbled for words. “Tough titties.”

Sherlock’s head shot up from the snag in his coat he’d been picking and stared at John with such an expression of mounting horror that it sent John to pieces. 

“Offended your elitist sensibilities, have I?” He chuckled.

“I didn’t take you for a crude man.”

"There are things you don't know about me, then. Thank God. You can certainly turn it on, eh? Manipulative arse,” John said, relenting after a few more laughs. “I might tell you about the swords. One day.”

Sherlock opened his mouth.

“ _Only_ if you stop asking,” John said pointedly.

The sound of gravel crunching beneath many tires interrupted whatever Sherlock had been poised to say next. Lestrade barking orders suddenly filled the air, accompanied by a cacophony of slamming car doors. 

John quirked an eyebrow and gestured towards the ruined front door with a flourish. “Your audience awaits, maestro.”

The detective stared at his friend for a moment, lip curling in the sneer he reserved mostly for Anderson before rolling his eyes mightily and storming past John in a whirl of Belstaff. John allowed himself a quick, broad grin, then schooled his face into something much more somber and appropriate before following Sherlock outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **AN:** ‘Totem’ may seem an odd title, but ‘fylgja’ seemed even more odd. I am a huge mythology nerd, and in Norse mythology, a fylgja is a supernatural being or creature which accompanies a person in connection to their fate or fortune. Much like an ‘aegis’, I see John as a protector of Sherlock’s capacity to be a “good” man, and certainly a touchstone in his pursuit of The Work.


End file.
